november is the month of limp walks
and first loans of conscience.
the games are only an excuse for fear
of not being enough for you, while your eyes slowly
interpret the mistery i should've solved long ago
nevertheless, you see, i keep my direction straight
and know that what's important –to leave
the blue line afloat: i want to be with you, the way we'll find.
i have made mistakes, i have been breaking anything i could find
i've been burning bridges. but it's always been like that, and you could call me
from another shore, with the same exact results
it's the pleasure in swimming the treacherous waters
it's the sinking undertow, that catches me helpless
against the ruthless decision you made, that all that was made cannot be unmade.
